


honey, no offence, but sometimes i could shoot you and watch you kick

by kafkas



Category: Strangers on a Train - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Ongoing Infidelity, endangered pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kafkas/pseuds/kafkas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Can a man still be good if he does evil things?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	honey, no offence, but sometimes i could shoot you and watch you kick

 

 

 

He had him pinned from the start. Or maybe he didn't – maybe he liked to believe that he'd caught on pretty quickly. But he was urbane, anyway. A Southerner. He was polite – probably too polite to back out of a marriage he wanted no part in. Steady. That’s what he remembered the best, afterwards. He’d had sure, _steady_ hands. Good hands to hold a gun. To hold in his own. There had been a line of freckles running from the inseam of his thumb to the opposite side of his wrist. Bruno had found it absurdly charming at the time.

It really wasn't about sex, not to begin with. Sex had never been something that interested him particularly. When he brought himself off in his hotel room the night after they met, he'd made a point of not thinking about anything - or _anyone_ \- at all.

His father had a lot of sex. If anything, Bruno saw it as a character flaw. His father had always been a little afraid of him for that. That and other things.

When he was twelve, the old bastard had a shrink flown in from England after Bruno had stabbed a boy with his pencil. Her name was Lira Goldfarb and she came from Hartford. Or Hereford, he wasn't sure. He hadn't exactly been paying attention at the time.

She’d asked him what it was exactly that he didn’t like about school. Petulant child that he was, he’d only given her a shrug and a grunt in answer. Lira had scribbled something down in her big, leather-bound notepad.

She’d asked him if it was the work, if he was finding it too difficult.

‘Wha’sat supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing, Charley. It was just a question.’

‘The work’s _boring_.’

‘Oh? And what else it boring?’

‘Everything! _Everyone!_ ’

In the end, they’d never been able to give him an exact diagnosis. “Minimal brain dysfunction,” was as far as they had ever gotten, although that sounded frightening so his mother had insisted it be referred to as “restlessness.” Lira thought he might be a manic-depressive too but his father had quickly dismissed _that_.

'What’s a boy in his situation got to be depressed about, anyway?'

In the end, they’d decided that homeschooling was the best option. That way, at least, he couldn’t hurt anybody else. As enlightened as he was now, he still couldn't put a finger on what exactly it was he hated about the world. Surely a place that housed such beauty could not be held in utter contempt…

Maybe it was just that society didn't understand him, or that it didn't get along with him. That never troubled him all that much.

Bruno liked to think he operated outside society.

So of course it was just a pure thing he felt towards Guy, nothing more. There was nothing _societal_ about it – he didn't want to shake Guy’s hand, or go golfing with him. What Bruno wanted was an extension of the connection the two of them to had, the _tie_. Those invisible strings that he could feel shucking against each other, even from a thousand miles away…

He just wasn't sure what that extension entailed.

 

 

 

When he threatened him in the alley, Guy’s mouth had fallen open. There was no argument to be had, no _now listen here_ s or _I don’t owe you a thing_ s – just blatant, animal fear and something else, something equal parts quiet and unnoticed, and spreading panic like wildfire. Bruno imagined he could hear Guy's heart begin to pound, even as he turned away, buried his face in his hands.

Guy was disgusted with himself – Bruno couldn’t understand why, or what for. _Stop that,_ he'd wanted to say, _That’s my job._

 

 

 

The half-hour train ride back to New York had seemed like the longest trip of his life. Guy had sat as stiff and tensed as a bowstring, afraid that if he allowed his mind wander - if he thought about what he had done in any level of detail - he would fall apart right there.

He had committed murder. 

Bruno had been waiting for him when he returned to the apartment. It was a few days after the crime - Guy had been out walking, speaking to no one, and had been for several days now. Bruno was leaning against his drafting table, and had negated to turn on a light. Guy didn't startle - he didn't have it in him to be frightened anymore.

'I came to thank you,' Bruno murmured. 

In the darkness, his eyes had seemed very large, very wet.  

'I don't want your thanks.' 

A great, shuddering breath had left Bruno then. His hands, when he brought them up to his eyes, shook. It seemed to Guy that he had been holding himself together by rage and rage alone, and that now the object of his hatred had fled from him forever, he was like a puppet without its strings. It seemed at once tragic. 

Guy brought his hand up to offer some kind of comfort - a pat on the back, a squeeze of the shoulder - but found his fingers smoothing through Bruno's hair instead. The other man leant into the touch, as touch-starved people are wont to do, and sighed contentedly. It was all very sordid, Guy realised with a sudden curl of his lip. Meeting in the dark like this. Touching each other in the dark. If somebody were to see them, it would look like - well. It would look like a lovers' tryst. 

 _But isn't that what this is?_ an unwelcome voice had whispered in the back of his head. Hadn't he and Bruno lied for each other? Hadn't they committed crimes together? 

As Bruno relaxed further into his arms, Guy desperately began to search for something to focus on - the mould collecting above the windowpane, the dappled pattern of the moonlight on the ceiling. He felt his pulse jump in his throat as Bruno's fingers came to rest, hesitantly, as a child's might, on the edge of his jaw. 

'You don't  _have_ to want them,' Bruno had breathed, 'I don't. Neither of us _wants_ any of this.' 

It's was a lie, and one that Guy slipped into easily. 

 

 

 

Charles-Anthony was at their house again. He’d let himself in rather casually and set himself up on the patio. That was where Anne found him when she got back from work, fast asleep in the evening sun. She had made him a scotch on the rocks and explained that Guy probably wouldn’t be home tonight – that sometimes he worked late and liked to sleep in his office. Charles had smiled as if at some hidden joke, and then he’d _waited_ and _waited_ and _waited._

He'd ended up getting so drunk that he passed out, and Anne had been forced to provide him with the guest bedroom again. Now she stood, folding away the clean linen, and listened to him snore. It seemed odd, that he was snoring. And so loudly too. 

Anne thought that, maybe, he _wasn’t_ asleep when she first arrived. She wondered what kind of a man would lie about a thing like that.

She wondered  _why_ he’d lie about a thing like that.

 

 

 

In his little book, Plato argues that things like _goodness_  and  _badness_ are inherent. That it’s the soul that when presented with temptation chooses to succumb, not the heart or the mind. A truly good man will never feel _anything_  erroneous, because he is incapable of it. Like Jesus in the desert.

Guy's often wondered of late if a man can call himself just and honest because he is aware of his actions – because he _regrets_ them. Can a man call himself good because he knows he is in the wrong?

Can a man still be good if he does evil things?

Charley Bruno was not a good man. That Guy knew with a certainty. If Bruno were good, he’d have left him alone. If Bruno were good, Guy would have wanted him to.

But as it were, he didn't. The man had already inveigled himself so far into his life that it would be impossible to extricate him – not without amputating something intrinsic of himself. Besides, there was something pleasantly akin to a homecoming in it. An equilibrium. The thought that, for a few minutes out of the night, Bruno mightn’t be Bruno, and Guy mightn’t be Guy, and they might have just gotten along. That if Miriam weren’t lying dead out there on that island, then maybe Guy could grow to love Bruno in the way he was sure Bruno loved him.

In the end, he let Bruno lead him into the bedroom and take him apart on the mattress there, and for Guy it was nothing but the logical extension of things.

So he let him do it time and time again. 

  

 

 

Another night, another mixer. The French windows had been thrown open and a dinner had been spilled out onto the lawn. It was six months since they moved into their new home. People kept telling Anne that she should be happy. And Anne tried to be, she really did. It was just a little hard when her husband had moments ago locked himself in the upstairs bathroom and refused to come out.

She’d asked him what was wrong and he’d replied that he felt sick, that he would be down in a moment. His voice had shook, as it did often nowadays.

It was  _him_ that had Guy scared, Anne was certain. Charles-Anthony. He was there now, off conversing somewhere with Guy’s friends from the firm – the Haineses’ pale shadow, jaunty and feverish, pretending that he knew them, that he had the right.

It had been been six months since Bruno threw up all over their brand new couch and dragged himself, snivelling, into the guest bedroom. And how Anne wished he had choked.

But it was no matter. She was intent not to let him spoil the evening. It was just as she was thinking this that Helen Heyburn called her over with a kind of polite snobbery, as if she were a member of the catering staff, and told her that the canapés were exquisite.

'Thank you angel,' Anne replied, licking a smudge of polenta from her thumb.

Helen had chortled. 'God! Haven’t you eaten enough tonight?'

'Guy says I’m eating for two.'

'Yeah, well, what would he know…' She sounded disparaging. Helen had never liked Guy much. She found him dull, and wanted Anne to marry Chris Nelson “who had really been in love with her.” Anne tried to hold it against her and found that she couldn't. Helen had a good soul. She was only suspicious of Guy because she was worried for Anne. And besides: it was hard to feel particularly sympathetic towards a husband who had been coming home late at night, his hair mussed, bloody scratches on his arms and shoulders. He refused to wash, liked to pretend he’d been working late at the studio. He slid into bed beside her and she could smell it on him. Gin. Copper. That faint, burnt-hair whiff of brilliantine. 

They'd killed together, that much Anne knew for sure. Whether Guy pulled the trigger himself was up for grabs. But, somehow, they’d killed Bruno’s father. And they had definitely killed Miriam.

How many more? Anne rubbed her stomach, and wondered if the baby was safe. She’d go stay with Helen, if she thought Guy would allow it. But he seemed so intent on keeping up appearances, even if she’d found his ring on the nightstand more than once.

At first she’d thought it was a woman. She half wished it was.

  

 

 

'Disgusting,' he hissed, 'Fucking awful. Sick bastard.' It took Guy a moment to realise he was speaking to himself. 

'We can -'

'Shut up,' his voice sounded shrill, even to his own ears, 'Y - you always have to - to  _talk through_ everything. I - I mean - Jesus Christ,Guy, what are you? A fucking girl?' 

He was working at Guy's belt buckle, his breath stammering. His comment had made Guy think of Anne. Doubtless she would be closing up the shop by now. Had she worked at the shop today? No... No, she'd been at the _studio_. Right now she would be adding the finishing touches to her designs, throwing pounce over the ink before sliding it into the folio. 

Conscience struggled deep inside of him like a drowning man. Bruno was busy sliding down the length of the mattress, coming to rest on the shag carpet at the foot of the bed. They'd had that carpet installed when they first moved in. Anne had claimed to hate walking along the cold wood floor on her way to bed.

All at once, Guy propped himself up on his elbows with a mind to tell Bruno to leave. The sudden movement made his vision smart black. 

'Bruno,' he began, his voice hoarse, 'I don't think -'

Bruno's mouth was like a wet, red crescent coming to rest between Guy's legs. 

He never did get to finish the sentence. 

 

 

 

The first time, the guilt came in like a tidal wave, rushing over, crushing him. Anne had just telephoned about a party at Helen Heyburn's house, her voice rang out like a clear, bright bell on the machine, blissfully unaware of his infidelity. In the bedroom, Bruno had been snoring loudly, convulsively. He had apnea, Guy thought - probably something to do with the drinking.

Drinking or no, he had been awake and upright when Guy came back in, the sheets pooled around his legs. He was staring out of the window, the venetian blinds making funny shadows across his face. Carefully, firmly, Guy took him by the arms. 

'Bruno,' he rasped, then cleared this throat, 'Bruno - nobody can know.' 

Bruno had nodded curtly and wiped his nose. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair cowlicked. He looked like a child. 

'You can't stay here.' 

'I know,' Bruno said quietly. 

Guy helped him dress. A strange, repressed anger had overtaken him now, and it caused his features to scrunch up unpleasantly. Bruno wasn't drunk tonight. Bruno had gotten what he'd wanted. Why should he be the one to help him? 

It was very clear to Guy that he had been used, at the time. As he watched Bruno lace up his shoes, he noticed that his hands neither shook nor faltered in their movements. Bruno had not been distressed when he had come here. This was not like the times he had called Guy at the firm, or written those letters to Anne. This was calculated. 

'Did you bring your muffler with you?' he asked, looking around the apartment for it. 

'I left it in the convertible.' Bruno turned to him with a smile. His eyes were cold, and without sympathy. 'I have a convertible now, did I tell you that? A Buick - royal blue.' 

'Get out.' 

Bruno's smile faltered, then widened into a grin. 

'Have I done something wrong?' 

'You know what you've done.' 

' _We've_ done, Guy.' 

He was talking about the murder, Guy realised. But in a way he wasn't. In a way, what they'd done that night could be more harmful to Guy than the business with Miriam, with Samuel. That business could cost him his life, but  _this_ \- this could cost him  _Anne._

Bruno seemed to understand. He had been babbling away, fixing his hair in the hall mirror, but now he glanced at Guy dismissively. It was the dismissive look he'd given Miriam on the train as he poked at his apple pie.

_I know that Southern redhead type._

Dully, Guy supposed that he had become just like Miriam, in his desperation to escape her. He'd become a liar. A cheat. Everything he despised in the world. 

'I'll be back,' Bruno said coolly, 'Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day. But I'll be back.' 

'I hope they catch you.' 

'If they catch me, they'll catch you too.' 

'I don't care,' Guy spat. Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't the truth. And - judging by the quirk of his eyebrows - Bruno knew it too. Neither of them would go to the police, and they would stay like this, proud cowards, until the day they died. 

To Guy, it was a fate worse than death. To Bruno... well. He didn't know what it was to Bruno. 

Sometimes Guy wondered if Bruno truly felt anything at all. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
